


I Plight Thee My Troth

by Cryptand_Bismol



Series: You're Human (Re)incarnate [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Great Fire of London, Middle Ages, Multi, Period Typical Language, Prostitution, Reincarnation, Sort Of, The first one in 1212 anyway, This is not as smutty as it sounds, Vaginal Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptand_Bismol/pseuds/Cryptand_Bismol
Summary: After their last discorporation in the late 1180s, it is another twenty years before Aziraphale and Crowley meet again, their most pleasurable first meeting yet.Part of the Reincarnation series, where Aziraphale and Crowley have been cursed to live and die as humans. Unbeknown to Heaven and Hell, the curse only partially works, causing the pair to be reincarnated over and over. Their memories may start wiped with each iteration, but they always remember each other, and their past, eventually.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: You're Human (Re)incarnate [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615402
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	I Plight Thee My Troth

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, sorry about the tone change. This is probably best described as happy, with an angsty ending. 
> 
> All speech is written sort of middle-agey, more like Shakespeare really because Old English is like incomprehensible, but hopefully you get the gist 
> 
> There were a few 'Great Fires' in the middle ages, what with the cramped wooden houses in London, and this references the 1212 Great Fire of Southwark. As might be expected, their discorporation is fire based, though not graphic. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**1206 – Southwark, London (A 18, C 19)**

The man before her was a rare beauty, hair to his shoulders like fire, beard cropped short and much in fashion, eyes hidden behind glass; he was much different from her usual visitors, who had as much charm as King John himself. She led him to her modest chambers, settling him back upon the straw mattress and lifting her skirts to straddle him, his clothed cock already pushing against her uncovered folds.

“Let me free thee from thine braies, my lord,” she said, kissing at his jaw, “and then thee can be duly recompensed for thine expense.”

She unlaced his clothing with frantic hands, pushing up his tunic to reveal him as he worked at her own to expose her breasts, “What a blessing Our Lord has bestowed upon me here! Truly the most divine set of tits in all of England.”

She giggled, not nearly as fake as the laughter she shared with her other patrons, “Oh, good sir, thou art a poet.”

“I shall have to spew my fine words somewhere worth such exaltation, nay?”

“Indeed, but where shall thou find such a place?” she teased, his now bare cock in hand and teasing at her entrance, “Here, perchance?”

As soon as his prick breached, he grasped her by the his and lay her upon her back, thrusting deeply within her and mouthing filthily at her neck, “I have had many a wench, my lady, but none as heavenly as thee.”

“And I have had many a prick, and proclaim they are all the same.”

He laughed and she thought him most beauteous, “Ah, thou seek to challenge me?”

“If thou seek to pleasure me with thee challenge, then prithee do so.”

He growled and picked up a series of deep, harsh thrusts that filled her so wonderfully and had her clenching at his back, moaning high-pitched as he kissed and sucked at her nipples, “Ah, mayhap I ought to, ah, yield in the face of such a worthy opponent’s sword.”

But where she expected the words to spur him onwards, he instead slowed, pulling his mouth away from her chest but not yet removing his cock from her. She was ready to question his sudden hesitance when he tugged off the frames shielding his eyes and looked into her own with a yellow snake-like gaze.

But again where a protest was expected, there was only a gasp, as Aziraphale’s memories came rushing back to her just as swiftly as Crowley’s had.

“Crowley,” she said, cupping his face so gently, at odds with the frenzied way they had been copulating a minute before.

“I doth declare this the most pleasant reacquaintance we’ve had,” Crowley grinned, kissing her sweetly as he lightly thrust his hips.

She couldn’t help her moan, but tried to look exasperated, only for it to come out looking fond, “Shall we not discuss the circumstances of our meeting?”

“Pray tell there is to say? That we are both frequent indulgers in pleasures of the flesh?” he said, continuing to kiss at her throat, “I hardly see a reason to stop, Angel, do thee?”

“Oh, dear serpent, I suppose I must agree,” Aziraphale sighed, dropping any front she had needlessly had, “Thou dost indulge me so wonderfully.”

“I don’t know, Angel, I thought thou called my prick common!”

“Don’t fool thyself into thinking it isn’t, dearest,” She panted as Crowley picked up the pace once more, “It is only by virtue of it’s master that I find I am fond of it.”

“Oh, I _see,_ thou tease for thou art in need of a good fuck today,” he smirked, “I would prefer thee beg for it, Angel.”

“Can thou blame me for such a need? But if thee so wishes then I would have thee fuck me like I was the wench thou thought me to be.”

“Well, I am still owed thy service for my generous coin, it would be remiss of me not to taketh my pleasure from thee.”

Indeed he did so, and together they did many times that night, always so eager for one another after so long without their love. But where it began as a game, a fun foray into their lives prior to their returned memories, it soon changed to sweet lovemaking, a celebration of their remarkable reunion.

“Doth thou think we triggered the memories by our meeting?” Crowley asked her that next morn, as they lay together pressed close.

“Perhaps so, my dear,” Aziraphale said, stroking her hand through his hair, “but I fear there is little way to replicate it.”

“Could we not? We know our thoughts can influence our future location, could we not influence in such a way that a note or evidence would force our meeting?”

“But would we be convinced by such words? And not think it some accursed message? Or even know it addresses us, for our name is sure to change.”

“But don’t thou think we should try?”

She was quiet for a short while, enjoying feeling the heat of him beside her, then “Yea, my love,” she kissed him, “For thee I would do anything.”

**1206 – Lambeth, London**

Though Aziraphale had nothing in the way of a dowry, Crowley’s locksmith apprenticeship had provided them with reasonable means to marry. He had provided her with a lovely blue gown, and she looked enchanting, her white-blonde curls loose beneath her barbette.

They were within their new home, previously Crowley’s own abode, stood before their hearth and witnessed by his guild-master before they would head to the church for their solemnisation.

They took each other by the hand, and Crowley began with the vows first, “I Aylwin Crowley taketh thee Auwenilda Fell to my wedded wife, with even death we shall not part, and henceforth I plight thee my troth.”

Aziraphale’s smile was so bright, her whole being so divine, Crowley forgot for a moment that she was no longer an angel.

“And I Auwenilda Fell taketh thee Aylin Crowley to my wedded husband, with even death we shall not part, and henceforth I give thee my troth.”

The surge of happiness was so great between them that they could not help but indulge in a kiss a little too intimate for the company.

Crowley’s guild-master clapped him on the back once they broke, “Thou art blessed, Crowley, thy wife is a beauty beyond compare.”

“Ay, she is,” he said, not taking his eyes off her, “And her wit even greater.”

“Someone must have sense between us, my love,” she teased.

His master’s laugh was booming, “Then you are a well matched pair! Where beauty may wither wit will remain.”

“I am quite sure Az- _Auwenilda’s_ beauty will not wither.”

“Thou art blinded by love, indeed! Well, I shall bid ye both farewell. And Crowley, prithee taketh the week to celebrate, I should hate for your good wife to feel neglected,” he said with a wink that caused Aziraphale to blush.

“We thank you most ardently, sir,” Aziraphale said, and with a final farewell he departed their home.

Crowley released her palm only to procure a cloth bound parcel from the chest in the corner, unveiling it to her as he approached, “A gift for thee, my beloved wife,” he said, “Genesis one to three as scribed by the good monks of Clerkenwell Priory.”

“Oh Crowley, my dearest, thou art surely the kindest of all beings.”

Crowley groaned just for show even as he smiled, “Thou know I hate such a label!”

“And yet how I cannot prevent myself from titling thee so with a gift of such love,” Aziraphale replied, bringing his hand to her lips to press a kiss there, “I can only pray that mine own gift can bring such feelings of love to thee.”

“Any gift from thee would be an object most treasured, Angel.”

Aziraphale drew out a cloth pouch from within her clothes and presented it to her new husband with shaking hands. From it he extracted the gift, a thin ring of gold, with a haloed apple engraved between two outstretched wings. Upon closer inspection he could see the halo was in fact a circled snake.

“Angel,” he breathed, slipping the ring upon his finger, “I shall wear it always, a story of our love immortalised.”

“My darling, I am full with love for thee,” she said, taking him in her arms and kissing him deeply, “Will thou taketh me to our chambers, my dearest?”

“Thou knowest I would love nothing more, Angel, but thou will be most aggrieved when we have missed our wedding.”

“Oh, must thee be so sensible now, my love?” she pouted, “But alas, as usual, I must agree.”

They gathered their cloaks and with a few more presses of lips they began the walk to the church hand in hand.

“Did thou know this is our first official joining?” Aziraphale said giddily.

“Doth thou not consider our more intimate joinings official enough?” Crowley grinned over at her, happiness clear even behind his dark lenses.

“Oh, thou serpent, hush” she giggled, “Isn’t it amusing that we aren’t supposed to have known one another yet?”

“Pity for them I have been knowing thee in every way since the height of Rome,” he leaned over and kissed her hair.

“Indeed thou hast, my love,” she sighed, reminiscing, “But oh, how wonderful it feels to have all know of our love!”

“And in the eyes of God, this time,” Crowley said more solemnly.

“My dearest, sometimes I dost think that God blessed us rather than cursed us,” she confided, “For how could all my years with thee be a curse?”

“I quite thought the curse was when we were parted.”

“I cannot claim those years are good, my love, but don’t thee agree on the other times? That were we still Angel and Demon we would sure to be apart for so much longer, and at such high risk.”

“Ay, Angel, I have oft thought of it. But even if this is to be a curse, we have made it a blessing on our own part. Not by the hand of God.”

She squeezed his hand, “Thou knowest I always hope to see good in Her. But even if we disagree on her influence, I am heartened to know thee think of our life as such a gift as I.”

They walked a little more in silence before Crowley huffed a small laugh, “Was that our first disagreement as husband and wife?”

“’Twas mayhap so,” she smiled, “And mayhap I am owed a kiss to settle our grievances?”

“If I must,” Crowley pretended to gripe, but drew her close as the stood just beyond the church gate and kissed her, full of love.

**1212 – Lambeth, London (A 24, C 25)**

“Angel!” Crowley shook Aziraphale, attempting to wake her, “Aziraphale, hie, the city is ablaze!”

She blinked open bleary eyes and immediately smelled the smoke thick in the air, “Crowley- what-“

“Aziraphale we must flee at once, they say Southwark is already burned to its timbers.”

He tossed some coverings to her, quickly dressing himself as she did the same. They could see the sky bright with the fire, the air full of scorching heat; it looked close, too close, and the screams seemed to only be a few paces away.

Crowley grabbed her hand and together they descended the steps, set to flee, but as they reached the ground floor the flames were already engulfing the doorway, thick smoke pooling in from the newly forming holes in the door. Aziraphale moved to tip over their heavy wooden table, dragging Crowley to shelter behind it, and they held each other close in their arms.

They weren’t sure if the fire or the smoke was closing in quicker, but as their breaths grew harder and coughs deepened, they suspected this would be the end of their corporations.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale croaked, “The manuscript.”

He scowled, “That’s hardly my highest concern at present.”

“I wanted to keep it, for the future. For of all our futures.”

He held her tighter, “I know, I know my love. But we will have so many more days together. I promise thee.”

The heat was unbearable, and they were both beginning to grow weary, unsure if the blackness in their eyesight was the smoke or their fading consciousness.

“I... love.... thee,” one of them said, or both of them, or neither, it was all so unclear.

But nothing else was said after, and soon a wedding gift burned to crumpled ash, and a gold band warped and charred.


End file.
